


The Garden of Earthly Delights

by ObliObla



Series: Obli's Fuckruary 2020 [23]
Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Humor, Recreational Drug Use, Smut, Wings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-22
Updated: 2020-04-22
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:53:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23794180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ObliObla/pseuds/ObliObla
Summary: Wings out, silk trousers slung low around Lucifer's hips, it’s been anexcellentevening thus far.Who could that be coming up the elevator?
Relationships: Chloe Decker/Lucifer Morningstar
Series: Obli's Fuckruary 2020 [23]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1619344
Comments: 44
Kudos: 269
Collections: Filii Hircus: Chillin' on the Dock of the Bay





	The Garden of Earthly Delights

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt 23: Feathers/wings
> 
> It is clearly no longer February, but I hope to fill out the rest of this series anyway 😃

The elevator dings, and Lucifer drifts back to awareness.

The rich brilliance of LA sunsets paints the penthouse crimson and orange, and he bathes in it—wings out, silk trousers slung low around his hips. It’s been an _excellent_ evening thus far, owing to the potent edibles he acquired from his favorite chemist and the joints he smoked earlier on the balcony.

He stretches, splayed out on one of the low sofas, feathers ruffling before lying flat, as footsteps approach from behind. He tips his head back, against the arm of the couch, to see Chloe standing over him.

“Hullo, Detective!” he cries. She’s as gorgeous as she always is, eyes like a placid sea, lips rosy and eminently kissable. Brow kissable, cheek kissable, chin… What was he thinking about?

“Hey, Lucifer,” she says, reaching down to cup his cheek. He sighs, eyelashes fluttering. The shimmering refulgence of her soul is beautiful, dancing like the sun on the surf. Or maybe the drugs are just kicking in a little more intently now that she’s within range. Either way, he stares, probably a little vacantly. But it doesn’t matter when she would blow Helen of Troy right out of the damn Aegean.

She giggles and asks him a question. He tries to parse her words, but another glorious wave of serenity crashes over him and he loses the thread of conversation entirely.

“What was that, darling?” he asks vaguely, entranced by the way the light of the dying sun reflects off her golden-brown hair.

“I said, ‘Are you high?’”

“Mm!” he says distinctly. He attempts to raise his hand in gesture but only manages to slump further into the couch cushions. “I mean... That is to say... _Yes_.”

She laughs again, and it’s free and clear. “How much did you take?”

“Enough,” he pronounces. He aims for a leer but, judging by her snort, fails entirely. “Care to join me?” he asks, wiggling his eyebrows in a way he knows she finds endearing.

She rounds the couch edge and sits, leaning back against his bare chest, wriggling to get comfortable in a highly distracting manner. The wing draped over the back of the sofa flutters before settling over her hip and thigh. Clinging tenuously to the present, he pouts. “That’s not what I meant.”

“I know,” she says somewhere near his ear. She turns her head until her hot breath is ghosting over his throat and asks, “Complaining?”

“No.” He runs his tongue over the inside of his teeth. “Sure I can’t tempt you?”

Her chuckle rocks against his rib cage, and she reaches out to muss his hair. He purrs, and she laughs harder. “Fat chance.”

“Hmm...” He tightens his wing against her and trails his fingertips down her side until she gasps. “Sure I can’t tempt you into something else?”

“You’re...” Her words trail off as he finds the button on her jeans.

“I assume you I’ve done more with less,” he breathes, dipping his head until his lips find skin. She turns in his arms and presses kisses to his jaw, up his cheek, her hands questing along his waistband. Every touch is sweet lightning; every point of contact between them shudders along his nerves until his hands shake. He loses purchase on the button and, frustrated, paws at the denim.

“ _Oh_ ,” Chloe says, breaking away from where she was inching toward his mouth. He groans and tangles his fingers in her hair, pulling her closer. He moans when their lips meet—cherry and coffee and her, her _her_ —and finds the button again. But it eludes him, and another overpowering wave is rising, so he simply grips and _tugs,_ and the button comes off in his hand. He tosses it across the room, and it dings against the floor.

“Did you just ruin my jeans?” she mumbles into his mouth.

“I’ll buy you another pair,” he whispers, snagging the zipper and pulling it down.

She replies in a rush of hot breath that cascades over his cheek, but he loses the words. All of his questionable focus lies in his fingertips, skimming over her underwear, snagging gently on the cotton. She’s wet through the cloth, and he draws slow circles over her clit, wings pulling further around her. His thumb brushes the hem, but before he can press on, a hand is tightening around his wrist.

He withdraws, frowning hazily. Everything is blurry and sharp edged both. He blinks, blinks again, licking his chapped lips helplessly. For an interminable moment, there is no sound but her unsteady breathing. But the rustling of his wings. There are truly alone in this place they make between them. The silence is broken by Chloe’s voice.

“Are you okay?” she asks, brushing a lock of hair from his face, trying to meet his gaze. It’s hard to do anything but float on the current, dragged by the ebb and flow. Up and down, up and down. The thought that she makes him vulnerable glides idly through his mind. _Oops._ He hadn’t been expecting her till later.

“Right as rain,” he mumbles. And it’s true. He is _lovely,_ even if he can’t quite feel the leather of the couch beneath them.

A worry line appears between her eyes, and he brings up his fingertips to smooth it. He lingers there, crossing her like a less-than-holy priest; it’s the only benediction he knows how to grant. He floats between reality and fantasy, feeling thoughts slip through his fingers like sand. He is speaking, he thinks. Recounting her praises and filling the penthouse with the measure of his adoration. He may be high as balls, but every word tastes of truth. Slowly, _slowly_ the torrent recedes to a pleasant milieu, and he sighs.

“Back with me?” she asks softly.

He smiles faintly. “I forget how much you affect my tolerance.”

She frowns again—and _again_ he wishes to wash her worry away—and asks, “Should I leave?”

Against his will, his wings snap up and around, cocooning her in feathers. There’s a second of shocked silence, and he stutters, stammers, trying to explain, trying to relax his recalcitrant limbs. She glances left, then right, then bursts into laughter, falling against his chest to bury her giggles in his throat.

“I’ll take that as a no,” she manages between lingering hysterics.

“Are you sure _you’re_ not high?” he mutters as she attempts to control her breathing.

She hiccups as she settles, pressing a kiss over his heart. “It’s just been a long week.” He brushes hair from her face, wings unwinding to rest against the floor and back of the couch, and she adds, “You’re _sure_ you’re alright?”

He scoffs lightly, nuzzling into her hair, smelling coconut and spice. “Believe me, I have been far higher than this.”

“Really?” She plucks at his waistband, and he hums.

“Your modern era didn’t invent intoxicants, you know. And I’m _highly_ dedicated. Now…” He slips a fingertip past her underwear, and she inhales sharply. “Where were we?”

With a _thud,_ her booted foot falls to the floor as she spreads her legs.

He builds her pleasure slowly, leisurely, fascinated by the heat of her clenching around him. He withdraws momentarily to drag her jeans and panties down around her thighs, and she whines. He presses his nose to her neck and breathes her in, returning to his work. He can taste her pulse, can feel how very close she is. As her exhalations grow ragged, he brings his thumb to bear on her clit. She sighs, hips jerking into his motions. Her voice rises in pitch as she moans softly; he waits a beat, two, holding her suspended on the edge, then pulls away.

She huffs and turns to look at him. “Seriously?”

But he has focus only for his fingertips as he brings them up to his mouth. He sucks on them, eyes slipping closed, savoring her taste. Nothing is finer than her desire. She nudges at him, but he barely notices, humming tunelessly, swept away. A hand glides over his stomach, and he stretches into the contact. Hot fingers slide beneath his waistband to take him in hand, and he’s dragged abruptly back to the present. His fingertips slip from his mouth, and he hisses. “ _Minx._ ”

She smirks and begins to slowly stroke him, and he slumps back. He traces his lips with wet fingers over and over, matching her movements as she accelerates. All the hazy pleasure that is flowing through him has come to thrum between his legs, and it bursts like honey in his mouth.

But there is a whisper in the back of his mind, and even as the sensations grow stronger, it grows louder. He had _plans,_ didn’t he? He may not be able to focus on much, but this is his sweetest arena, and he has _standards,_ dammit. Coming off before he even gets to bury his tongue in her delectable heat simply won’t do.

He bats her hand away and wraps his wings again around her before leaping to his feet, surefooted, if somewhat unsteady. He turns on his heel and lays her out on the couch before kneeling beside it. Her boots go first, unzipped and tossed somewhere behind him. Then the jeans and underwear, stripped quickly and thrown over the back of the couch.

“Hey, uh…”

He tears his gaze from her smooth and strong and gloriously exposed legs to glance at her face. She squirms in mild discomfort, and he frowns before understanding smacks him about the face. Ah, the leather. He stands, whips off his own trousers, carefully slips them under her bare skin—pausing only for a lingering kiss at her hip—then kneels again.

"Better?" he asks, torn between too many splendid sights.

She hums, her own gaze sinking as he fingers the hem of her jacket. "Much."

Together, they divest her of the rest of her clothing. As she flings her bra over her shoulder, he stares, intoxicated anew. “You are utterly ravishing, my darling,” he whispers fervently, fingertips trailing from ankles to calves to soft, perfect thighs, painting his desperation everywhere he touches. “Sexy and stunning and _sublime_.”

Heat rises in her cheeks, and she laughs. “You’re so corny sometimes.”

He gives her his best, toothiest, more-than-likely lopsided grin and, ever shameless, says, “You love it though.”

Her tight, somewhat flustered look gives way to a warm smile. “I do.”

One day, he hopes, as he bows his head to press his lips to the slight swell of her stomach. One day, she will let him sweep her away to this still, quiet place, and they will float together over the surface of a tranquil, moonlit sea. But for now, there are other ways to tease out serenity.

Lucifer loves nothing in the world so well as psychoactive substance enhanced oral, except, perhaps, psychoactive substance enhanced oral with his detective.

He starts slowly, teasing the sensitive nerves over her hip bones, mouthing up her rib cage to suckle her nipples. She groans, and her hand comes up to tangle in his hair, the other clenched on the back of the sofa. He lingers, more than he usually might, until her fingers tighten against his scalp. Only then does he abandon her breasts, for the moment, to suck a soft bruise into her collarbone. To raise a hickey on her neck until she cries out.

“ _Lucifer_ …”

His name in her mouth is a symphony all on its own, every mote of incandescence it’s ever managed to conjure drawn into sharp relief. The heat of the dawn of Creation blazing with joy and desire, crafted into trillions upon trillions of stars, burning and turning, fire and light. The galaxy glittering in a vast band across the cast of the sky, poured out in an endless rush of silver and adamant and—

“Lucifer?”

“Yes, dear?”

She fidgets impatiently against the couch cushions, grabbing at his hand and pulling it between her legs. “Could we, uh…?”

“Yes, yes, of course.” He shakes his head, clearing away the worst of the haze that hides the stars from sight. The universe in all its majesty and grace can wait; his darling cannot. He returns to her breasts, nipping and sucking, teasing at the curls between her thighs. She parts at his touch, so eager he might chuckle were he not equally desperate. Had he any focus not devoted toward the heat under his fingertips, the sweet slick there, he might huff out a laugh. As it is, it’s all he can do to not moan brokenly into the valley of her cleavage at what he finds between her legs.

He slips a finger inside, two, starting up a leisurely rhythm. He rubs slow circles into her clit. He bites lightly at her nipples until she scratches at the nape of his neck. But it’s not enough—not for her, and certainly not for him. He has tasted the sweetness of her lips, has suckled sweat from her skin until she sighed; but there is something else left to pluck from this garden of earthly delights, and he has run out of patience with this game as much as she has.

He guides her to hook one foot over the back of the couch and leads the other to the ground before perching between her spread legs. The leather is warm from her body, and he feels the soft press of it against his knees as he kneels. He kisses her hip before teasing her navel, dipping back down to tease. His hands slide up her inner thighs, resting there to feel her pulse thrum under her skin. She shivers, breathing roughly.

“Lucifer, _please_.”

He can feel her all-encompassing warmth, can taste her need in the air, and nothing clears his mind so well as that. Nothing sharpens his focus like the rush of blood against his lips when he wraps them around her clit. Like the tension in her muscles when she drapes her thighs over his shoulders. Like the taste of her, musk and salt and sour on his tongue when he delves deeper.

Desire dances in the air like a physical thing in these moments, his hands tight on her hips, holding her in place. She bucks, shakes, fingers grabbing at what she can reach, and all of it draws him higher after her. He flicks his tongue against her, and she hums. He suckles harder at her clit, and she keens. He slips two fingers inside, pumping a slow rhythm, and her back arches with her bliss.

He could slow, could hold her in suspense until she begs him for release; but he is of singular mind now, and he merely steps up the intensity. He presses a hand under her hips to pull her body up against him, improving the angle. He drops his jaw, slides his tongue inside as far as he is able, ripples it against her clenching muscles. When he returns to her clit, he sucks hard, a third finger pressing deep, pulling her open.

Celestial choirs have nothing on the songs of praise she keens in her pleasure, and he builds their rhythms and melodies with everything he has. Everything he _is._

She cries out, clenching around his fingers, pulsing against his tongue. Her heel digs into his back, her hands tighten around the edge of his wings, disrupting the feathers. She tenses, every muscle pulled taut for an endless moment, before collapsing into the couch.

He surges up immediately, kissing the sweat from her upper lip, brushing hair back from her face. Fire and heat, sunshine and sea, freedom and grace—they all lie within her, even as her eyes slowly open and the headiness of her desire dissipates like the haze over the city at dawn.

“Hey,” she says quietly, reaching up to cup his cheek.

“Hey,” he says, just as softly.

She traces a line past his chin, over his throat, down his chest, a slow, leisurely touch that sparks flames in his veins so much kinder than hellfire. His wings slump to the floor, trailing on either side of the couch, but he holds himself up for her. He wants, desperately, to touch her, to bring her to ecstasy again. It is almost painful to leave her unsatisfied—he can feel her continuing want as keenly as if it were his own—but she desires patience, so he will grant it.

It’s hardly a sacrifice to place himself in her tender hands.

She encourages him to move closer, and he slots himself between her legs. Surely, she can feel him, hard and hot and ready against her thigh, but she seems content to map out constellations on his skin. The last of the sun’s rays glisten in her eyes before they’re gone, and there is darkness there. But it’s no tenebrous stillness, no endless night. It is nothing that reminds him of Hell; nor does it recall Heaven—its cold brilliance and frozen luster.

No, her light is the glow of a well-loved hearth, a joy that has known sorrow, a sweetness edged by bitterness. It is more beautiful for its flaws, is sublime in its mundanity. She sweeps her thumb over his hip, and he presses into the contact, only to withdraw when a low _tsk_ leaves her kiss swollen mouth.

“Stay still,” she whispers, and he stiffens immediately. She takes him in hand, and he clenches his teeth, hands shaking even as he holds himself entirely still. It’s no strain to stay like this, but isn’t it?

She circles the head of his cock with her thumb, and he hisses. Every touch even to the most mundane parts of him is sharp and bright as a brand heated cherry-red. His detective’s marvelous caress as she starts up a slow rhythm is almost unbearable. When she adds a twist at the base, lip caught between her teeth in concentration, he moans loudly, his forehead falling against the arm of the sofa.

“Doing alright there?” she asks breezily, nipping cheekily at his earlobe. When he tries to speak, she tightens her grip, his groans muffled against the leather. She laughs, and he grunts, dragging his head up to meet her gaze.

“What have I possibly done to deserve this cruelty, Detective?” he asks in mock-affront. He’d press his palm to his chest and pout, but his hands are otherwise occupied, and his lips aren’t quite cooperating.

Her eyes narrow, and mischief dances in their depths. _Uh oh._ “You left me high and dry earlier,” she says sweetly.

“I made you come!” he protests as she slides further under him to fondle his bollocks, her other hand tweaking his nipples.

“Eventually,” she says, stroking him roughly until he gasps before returning to slow, steady, not-remotely-vigorous-enough strokes. “You made me come _eventually_. So I _will_ make you come”—she tugs at him until he sees stars, smirking broadly—“eventually.”

“And what,” he pants, the pleasant numbness of his extremities from the last of the edibles sharpening into a maelstrom of sensation, “is stopping me from taking what I want?”

She hums, tracing a vein, driving him utterly mad. “Don’t you want to be good for me?”

He considers this for a moment, two, then conjures a smirk of his own. “Nope.”

Her eyes widen, but before she can speak he’s lifting her, neck and hips, his wings coming up to cradle her back as he stands. Her legs wrap around his hips, and she leans back against a wall of feathers to scowl. When he simply stands there, her scowl turns to confusion, then amusement.

“You don’t actually have a plan, do you?”

“Mmm… Nope,” he says again, popping the p,

She cocks her head. “And you’re higher than you thought?”

“Mmm… Maybe?” Damn, but this is some good shit.

She sighs a little indulgently, reaching out to flatten his hair. He presses into the contact; it feels _very_ nice, and his eyes slip closed. He hums, or purrs, or makes some other absurd sound she’ll mock him gently for later. Not that he remotely cares. When she pulls away, his eyes pop open, and she smiles. “I love you, you _ridiculous_ Devil.”

“And I you,” he says dreamily. They grin at each other for a moment, appreciating the closeness between them. But he _did_ have a plan, at some point at least, and he suddenly recalls it. He makes his way out of the living room and up the stairs to the bedroom. Or…tries to, but his darling detective keeps distracting him. She licks her lips and arches her back against his wings, which feel suddenly overcome with weakness. She scratches her fingernails over his chest, down his stomach, until she can take him in hand again, and he curses, forgetting where he was headed.

They end up against one of the columns that frames the entrance to his bedroom, touching and kissing and _feeling._ His feathers cushion her from the hard stone, and one of his hands tightens around her hip, the other teasing between her legs. She hisses, still sensitive, and his laughter turns to a groan when she jerks him hard.

His forehead falls against his own wing. He’ll have to remember to thank his chemist—it’s been a long time since he felt so much, so intently. It’s tricky, whatever this strain is; every time he thinks he’s sobering up, he merely finds a new level of kaleidoscopic colors. It’s _delightful._ If Chloe ever agrees to join him in this bliss, he’ll have to get more. Only the best for his detective.

Amidst his titillating tangent, she seems to have taken matters into her own hands. Literally. She’s lining them up impatiently, pulling herself into the right angle, and _oh, yes_ his waning interest abruptly waxes. Few things are more effective at bringing him back to reality than… “Oh, oh, oh, _darling._ ”

Bless muscle memory, granting him the wherewithal to find her lips and pant his pleasure there even as his hips snap forward in a rough rhythm. He tries to kiss her, but she gasps, and their foreheads end up pressed together as they breathe into each other’s mouths.

He’s already close, close, _close_ —his mind may have forgotten, but his body is beyond ready. Yet he holds himself back, finds her clit with his thumb as his rhythm increases, whispers praises and curses against her broken silence. He could name her a star, cradled fiery and vibrant in his arms. A wildfire come to burn him down, or else to raise him up from the ashes. The sun, twisting and spiraling in the grandest darkness. His tongue is loosened such that he might drop honey from it, might recall how eternity tastes. Might remember the universe when there was nothing but darkness, but light. Might call it mercy.

But in this moment, her heat around him, the sweetness of her breath, the strength of her working against him—it’s everything. He needs no metaphor, needs no chimerical dream. Needs only her, for as long as he’s allowed. And they are rising, rising, rising…

She clenches around him, but he only presses harder, brings her back to the verge for a second wave, a third. When he tries for a fourth, she pulls herself forward to bite at his lip, hard. Only then does he let himself fall after her, groaning and mumbling and made new in the rush of her joy.

His wings droop when they pull away from the wall, gasping, eyes closed in pleasure. She clutches at him, and he returns her touches, dragging them from the edge. He might sleep now, a sleep of the restful dead. But they are yet alive.

Hell, they haven’t even gotten to the bed yet.

He stumbles up the stairs, lays her down on gold and sateen, sprawls out beside her. She’ll want to shower before they continue, if he knows her at all. And he does. _Finally_ , he does, truly, fully _._ She’ll desire to eat soon, as well, and so will he. There is fruit and cubed cheese, cold cuts and crudités for him to feed her by hand. There are more of the edibles that brought him to this place or, if she continues to decline, wine and whiskey from the bar. There are ropes and cuffs with which to bind her, or him. There are toys of every extraction.

And, most importantly, there is time. So much time. An endless moment in every touch, infinity in each kiss. Even relentlessly sober, he could find long summers between her parted lips, lifetimes in the valley between her breasts, eons between her spread legs. He traces them and more as she drifts in the wake of their shared satisfaction, content with his lot. More than content.

This is what true peace is, not anything that could be found in Heaven.

He’s considering indulging in that aforementioned slumber when she opens her eyes and sits up, looking down at him. “I changed my mind,” she says slyly.

“You…?”

She reaches forward and pokes his nose. “Get the edibles.”

“Yes, _ma’am._ ”

**Author's Note:**

> I can't say this _will_ have a sequel, I can't say it won't. 
> 
> We'll see.
> 
> Hope you liked it!


End file.
